


Try To Show It and You Drive Me Back

by Epigone



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, The Band (Band 1968)
Genre: 1963, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, READ TESTIMONY, The Hawks (band), Unresolved Sexual Tension, garth is a woodsman savant hero, levon helm: was perfect, references to drug use... i mean it’s ‘60s rock’n’roll, ricky is an actual puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22276699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epigone/pseuds/Epigone
Summary: At length, Ronnie says, “Well, guess it was bound to happen, the two of you always rooming together. Maybe you boys are getting too close, if you’re starting to pass colds back and forth. You might wanna think about… putting some distance between you.”
Relationships: Levon Helm/Robbie Robertson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 82





	Try To Show It and You Drive Me Back

_My love’s bigger than a Cadillac  
I try to show it and you drive me back_  
—Buddy Holly, “Not Fade Away”

***

Robbie’s had a sore throat since their last leg of the Southern circuit, but nobody paid much attention because it's just an occupational hazard. They work too much in smoky bars and go through too many cigarettes and joints on their own time. On the drive up to Canada, Levon watches Robbie wincing at bright lights and moving like his head hurts—his upper body tightly controlled, his neck stiff—but writes it off as sinus pressure from the weather change, maybe a migraine at the worst. It’s only when they’ve settled into their hotel in Hamilton that Levon starts catching him muffling a dry, listless cough into his shoulder at intervals, and by the day of their first scheduled show he’s noticeably hoarse. Levon feels like an asshole for not putting two and two together earlier, but Robbie’s clearly trying to be inconspicuous about the whole thing. He might’ve gotten away with it for a while longer, too, if he didn’t feel the need to apologize every time he has to blow his nose during rehearsal.

Levon goes over to him when they take a break after running through “Not Fade Away.”

“You sound better on that every time,” Robbie says, warm and enthusiastic, as Levon approaches.

“You sick?” Levon asks.

Robbie hesitates with a tissue halfway out of his pocket, then stuffs it back down. “Sorry?”

Levon realizes he might be coming off as accusatory, even combative; he’s still getting used to softening himself for Robbie. Still self-conscious about it, and about _noticing_ so damn much where Robbie is concerned.

He crosses his arms and says gruffly, “Just… sound like maybe you’re comin’ down with something.”

Robbie looks startled. “Oh. Yeah, I— uh, maybe, yeah.” Levon can see his hand stray toward his pocket again before he catches himself. His smile is slow in coming, full of discomfort. “Sorry. I’m washing my hands constantly and not breathing on anyone, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Levon doesn’t know what to say to that, but luckily Rick bounces over at that moment and asks, without preamble or embarrassment, “ _Honestly_ , Robbie, you swallow a frog or what?”

Robbie’s disarmed by Rick—as just about everyone is; it’s a talent of Rick’s—and he answers, ruefully, “Feels more like a porcupine.”

Nobody has a chance to follow up, because Ronnie arrives and wants to hear what they’ve been messing around with. When they finish, he grunts his approval, but all he says is “Still needs some work before we go on tonight.”

Rick rolls his eyes and says, “It’s only Hamilton.”

“Spoken like a true farm brat from Simcoe,” observes Richard dryly.

Rick rounds on him in outrage that could be real or exaggerated. “You really wanna go through this again, _Swan City_?”

While everyone else is distracted, Levon returns his attention to Robbie, who’s slumped back into a chair and surreptitiously rubbing at his throat, eyes heavy-lidded. He seems to sense Levon’s gaze, though, because after a moment he glances up to meet it and goes pink, trapping both hands between his knees. He looks very young, and somehow defenseless.

Levon finds himself saying, too loudly, “How ya feelin’, Robbie?”

Robbie’s face gets redder and more distressed, but before he can answer, Ronnie asks, “What’s wrong with the kid?”

“Nothing,” says Robbie, keeping his voice low—whether to try to head off conflict or to disguise the rasp in it, it’s hard to tell. “I can’t wait to play.”

“Sounds like he feels like shit,” says Levon, ignoring Robbie’s panicky sideways glances.

“Yeah?” says Ronnie, already losing interest. “Well. Good thing I didn’t hire him for his voice then, ain't it?”

That’s the end of the discussion. At the show that night they all play their hearts out for Ronnie, and then practice into the wee hours again. Garth falls asleep whenever there’s a lull between songs, but the unusual thing is that Robbie does too. Two or three times when Levon and Rick and Richard are arguing about harmonies, he nods off against the wall with his chin tucked on his chest, his legs crossed, his hands pulled into his sleeves. Taking up as little space as possible. Every time it happens Levon feels furious and guilty and strange all over again, but Ronnie’s not here and there’s no one he can take it out on.

When they finally start packing everything away for the night, Robbie staggers as he gets up. Richard’s there almost immediately to catch him, as if he was expecting it.

“You’re bunking with Levon this week, aren’t you, Robbie?” Richard asks, unnecessarily; they all know their sleeping arrangements. Two rooms, two beds each, and Rick lost the coin toss for the floor in Richard and Garth’s room, but Richard offered to switch with him. “This shouldn’t take five people. How about we finish here, and you and Levon head out?”

Robbie’s leaning gratefully against Richard, but at that he straightens and says, “No, that’s… that’s not necessary.”

“Well, Levon looks ready to drop,” says Richard, casting Levon a conspiratorial glance. “Why don’t you put him to bed and then you can come back and help?”

Levon’s torn. “Never been _put to bed_ in my life.”

“Not once,” Rick contributes, busy with the instruments. “Not even as a newborn. The Helms don’t even sleep in beds.”

“Sure they do,” says Robbie, sounding distinctly out of it. “I’ve been in a Helm bed.”

Rick snorts with laughter and Richard has to turn away momentarily, spluttering and biting his lip. They’ve both clearly smoked more than they’ve shared tonight.

“I hate the pair of you,” Levon mutters, but he surrenders, taking Richard’s place next to Robbie. “C’mon, Robbie, I’m beat. Don’t even know where I put my room key.”

It’s painfully apparent that Robbie is all but dead on his feet. He allows Levon to shepherd him out onto the frigid street, into a cab, and up to their room. The entire way, people—the club owner, the cab driver, the dissipated locals still hanging around the hotel lobby—eye them with appraising interest: Robbie stumbling like he’s blind-drunk, Levon trying to lead and support him as discreetly as possible.

In their room, Robbie sits on his bed but refuses to lie down.

“Richard said put _you_ to bed,” he protests. 

“I’ve got the utmost respect for Richard,” says Levon. “We all do. But how ’bout we try this under your tongue first?”

He’s rummaging through his luggage for the drugstore thermometer he bought before the show. When he looks up, Robbie has his feet tucked under him, his face averted.

“Robbie?”

“Sorry,” Robbie says. His voice is faint and faraway. “I know I’m… being a bother.”

“Robbie?” Levon says again. “I just wanna know if you’re running a fever?”

Robbie turns to look at him, and it’s like a physical blow, the reminder of what a _kid_ he is. Or maybe what a kid he should be, and isn’t. His eyes are glassy—Levon doesn’t need a thermometer to know he’s feverish—but still full of wariness, even mistrust. 

It strikes Levon: it’s possible no one’s ever really had the time or inclination to take care of Robbie’s minor illnesses or injuries before, ever treated any of it as more than an inconvenience at best. Levon’s met Robbie’s mother and she’s lovely, openly adores him (how could she not), but Levon thinks even Robbie senses that on some level she’s relieved to have only a part-time child, these days. As for Jim Robertson— well, Levon met him just the once, at Le Coq d’Or. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome ex-serviceman, or whatever passed for that in Canada. Levon shook hands, was savagely polite, and drank himself stupid that night. Big man who gave Robbie nothing but a family name, and Levon still doesn’t know why Robbie wants to be called “Robbie” after all that.

Robbie’s still watching Levon as if he’s trying to decide whether to duck or hold his ground, so Levon leaves off searching for the thermometer and approaches with his hands empty and extended, like a peace offering. He puts the back of one to Robbie’s forehead. After a moment Robbie closes his eyes, making a throaty pleading noise. Levon’s not sure if he’s asking to be touched more or for Levon to somehow make him feel better. Levon’s also not sure that he can do either, but before he removes his hand he lets himself smooth back Robbie’s sweat-damp hair.

“What’s the verdict?” Robbie asks, his eyes still shut.

“Hate to break it to you,” Levon says, helplessly fond, “but I’d say you’re sick, baby.”

He’s not all that used to having to think before he speaks—he’s gotten in a fair few fights over it, and no real harm done—so the last word just slips out. It’s not the first time he’s called Robbie that, of course, and Robbie’s not the first guy he’s called that. But it’s always been a public word for him. It’s not something he ever meant to say to Robbie Robertson alone in a small shared hotel room.

Robbie doesn’t seem to notice, though. As if Levon’s acknowledgement gave him permission, he hunches forward and coughs into his hands, his shoulders drawing together as if it’s painful—which it must be, given the wrecked state of his throat. When he finishes, he looks even more exhausted, and finally lies down on his side, still facing Levon.

“Sorry,” he says. It’s unclear whether he’s apologizing for the coughing or just for being sick and vulnerable.

Instead of trying to figure out how to respond appropriately to that, Levon takes off Robbie’s shoes, then levers his legs into bed. Robbie should really change out of his street clothes, but to do that he’d have to sit up again, and Levon’s not actually prepared to help him undress. So Levon pulls the covers over him, and then strips his own bed of its blanket and piles that on top of Robbie too.

“Go to sleep,” Levon says, too brusquely, and then tries to temper it. “I’m gonna go shower, but I’ll turn out the light in here.”

“Aren’t the guys going to be waiting for me to come back and help?” Robbie asks, but his eyes are already closed again.

Levon gnaws on his lip, watching Robbie’s face. He looks drawn and anxious even when he’s more asleep than awake. “No, Robbie. I don’t think they are.”

Levon takes longer in the shower than usual, trying to give Robbie time to stop worrying and drift off. But when he tiptoes back into the dim room in his boxers, he can see Robbie tossing and shivering. The room is chilly—this is Canada, after all—but not to the point where Robbie should be shaking like that under his mountain of blankets. Levon hesitates, but finds he can’t pretend it’s not bothering him and just get in his own bed and lie there listening. So he sighs and goes back to his suitcase. 

He doesn’t have any clothes suitable for sleeping in, but he picks out his oldest, most faded shirt and buttons it up haphazardly. That leaves the problem of bottoms. He’s tired enough, and Robbie’s shuddering is audible enough, that he can’t come up with a better option—he finds Robbie’s suitcase and filches a pair of long underwear, trying not to think too much about it.

“Move in,” he murmurs, leaning over Robbie. 

Robbie does as he’s told, but he obviously wasn’t expecting Levon to crawl into bed next to him, because he jerks in surprise as Levon settles down.

“Fuckin’ cold in here,” Levon says. “I’ll talk to somebody tomorrow about looking at the radiator or something.”

“You should take your comforter back,” says Robbie after a moment’s pause.

“Naw, this is fine for now.” And funnily enough, it is. “Anyhow, I borrowed a pair of your pants, so we’re even.”

At that, Robbie relaxes slightly and moves closer into the circle of Levon’s body heat. He’s got to be on his last legs to be this suggestible. Levon’s still all but holding his breath, certain he’ll never be able to sleep, but it’s oddly soothing, feeling Robbie’s shivering gradually subside and hearing his wheezy breathing even out. As he drops off, Levon’s wondering why they bother tossing a coin for the floor.

***

In the morning Levon wakes to a sound he doesn’t quite register. He moans comfortably and starts to stretch before he remembers where he is. He has an arm around Robbie and a leg slung over both of Robbie’s, and Robbie must’ve turned in his sleep to bury his face in the hollow of Levon’s shoulder, which is half-bared because Robbie’s got a hand fisted in the collar of his sloppily buttoned shirt. His breath is warm against Levon’s skin, his cheek warmer.

Before Levon has time to process all this, the sound comes again: a knock on the door. He curses under his breath and carefully disentangles himself from Robbie, pleased that the movement doesn't even cause a break in his soft congested snoring.

He opens the door to an uncharacteristically subdued-looking Rick. It’s awfully early for Rick—or any of them—to be awake.

“Morning!” says Rick. “We just—” He stops and blinks, taking in all of Levon. “Uh, what are you _wearing_?”

Levon yawns in his face before asking, “You wake me up at eight o’clock in the damn morning for a wardrobe check, Danko?”

With a show of effort, Rick raises his eyes from Levon’s legs. “We, uh, just wanted to see how Robbie was doing.”

“‘We’?”

“Well.” Rick kicks the door-frame awkwardly. “I mean, Garth’s still asleep. Richard said not to bother you guys, but he’s hungover and wasn’t paying me much attention and then he went to the bathroom, so…”

Levon gives Rick the fiercest glare he can muster. “Robbie’s still asleep too, and he’s gonna stay that way unless _someone_ starts makin’ a racket around here.”

Rick nods rapidly. “Yep, right, got it. I mean, just tell him… take it easy and everything, and if he needs anything…”

Levon's about to close the door when a thought strikes him.

“I don't think he got anything to eat last night. You’re already up; go make yourself useful and track something down.”

Rick beams, thrilled to be helpful. “Yeah, sure! What do you guys want?”

“I dunno, whatever you think he'd like. Bland, though. Easy on his throat.”

Rick goes bounding off down the hallway, and Levon rolls his eyes and shuts the door. He didn’t get that much sleep, but there's something distinctly unwelcoming about his still-made bed across the room and no immediate excuse to go back to— well. So he shaves and gets dressed in near-silence. He lets Robbie sleep as long as possible, then gets a cup of lukewarm water from the bathroom faucet and digs out the thermometer. He sits on the mattress next to Robbie and reluctantly shakes him by the shoulder.

“Hey, Robbie? Wake up for a minute, huh?”

Robbie stirs, twitching fretfully. He’s almost completely swaddled in bedding, but outside of the blankets he’s got one hand curled against his chin, almost protectively, like he used to sleep with his thumb in his mouth when he was younger. After a moment with no further response, Levon takes the hand; it’s cold, and he chafes it between both of his.

At that, Robbie blinks awake, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused until they fix on Levon’s face.

“Sorry,” Levon says. “How’s the throat?”

Robbie swallows experimentally, and his mouth tightens. He shakes his head with a wince.

“Time to get to work?” he asks, sounding miserable and husky. It’s a valiant attempt at normal speech, but one that’s punished by a spasm of coughing that racks his skinny frame.

“Nah,” Levon says. “Just gonna take your temperature, the real way this time. You can have some water afterward. You wanna sit up for me?”

“I don’t _want_ to,” Robbie rasps out, trying to smile. “But if you want me to…” Levon helps him fold back the blankets just enough that he can support himself against the headboard.

“Under your tongue,” Levon instructs, giving him the thermometer, and Robbie obediently sticks it in his mouth. 

They sit in an awkward silence where Robbie can’t talk and Levon doesn’t know quite what to say; it’s an unfamiliar situation for him. But there’s a beep before too long, and Robbie takes out the thermometer and looks at the reading with a slight frown on his face.

“It’s not that bad,” he says, relinquishing it to Levon.

“101.7, in the morning?” asks Levon, raising his eyebrows.

“Sounds like a radio station,” Robbie offers with a mirthless laugh. “‘And now to: Low-Grade Fever Hour.’”

Levon refuses to be deflected. “What would count as ‘that bad,’ then?”

Robbie shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “Had worse.”

Levon has to all but literally bite his tongue to keep from barking _Yeah, I bet you fuckin’ have_. He settles for “Ever see a doctor for any of it?”

“I sure don’t need to see a doctor for _this_ ,” Robbie retorts, real sharpness in his voice, almost scorn, although Levon has a suspicion the scorn’s not directed at him. Then Robbie seems to hear himself and adds a breathless “Sorry—!” before his body betrays him and he lapses into another paroxysm of coughing. 

It sounds harsher and chestier than yesterday, and he looks terrible. His lips are cracked from fever-heat, and his skin is pasty. Levon recognizes that it would be pointless to mention any of that right now, though, so he just thumps Robbie between the shoulderblades until he gets his wind back.

“Sorry,” Robbie says again, fishing in his pocket until he finds a tissue to wipe his eyes. “I just— oh, sorry, excuse me—” He sneezes, blows his nose, and finishes wretchedly: “Hate being sick.”

Levon passes him the cup of water and lightly says, “Who doesn’t?”, in lieu of forgiving him for something that he shouldn’t think he needs forgiveness for.

Robbie looks at the cup, visibly steeling himself for the pain of swallowing. He takes a sip, and the relief in his face, finding the water room-temperature and anodyne, somehow brightens Levon's whole morning. His next drink is long and grateful. 

When he finishes, Levon holds out a hand, and Robbie gives him the empty cup and says “Thank you” like Levon's taking a burden from him instead of a complimentary piece of hotel plastic.

“Want some more?” Levon asks, trying to avoid the aching sincerity in his eyes.

Robbie ducks his head, shy all of a sudden. “No, thanks, that's good. Um. I slept in these clothes, though, so I was thinking I might try to shower.”

Levon stops moving for a moment, glad that Robbie's not looking at him anymore, because he's convinced his alarm must be painted all over his face.

“You up for it?” he asks, very casually. “I mean. You need any…”

Robbie's flush shows down the back of his bent neck.

“No!” he says, heatedly, to the floor. “I mean, I just… might need some help getting up, is all.”

“ _Robbie_ ,” Levon starts to object, and Robbie lifts his chin and looks at him again, a direct challenge.

“Just getting up,” he says. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Yeah,” Levon says, helplessly, “’course, I know that.”

“I don't wanna be a pain in the ass.”

Levon forces a laugh. “You think if you were being a pain in my ass, I wouldn't bust _your_ ass?”

For some reason, Robbie colors even more; you might even mistake his complexion for healthy. But he holds out a hand, accepting without question—as Levon had been betting he would—that because Levon would bust anybody else’s ass, he’d do the same with Robbie. That Levon feels no differently about him than about anybody else. Levon tries not to dwell on what he's feeling about anything right now, including Robbie’s buying that fiction.

He gets hold of Robbie's upper arm as Robbie kicks back the blankets the rest of the way and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He starts shivering almost immediately, but Levon holds his tongue and takes as much of Robbie's weight as he can. After a few steps Robbie's perspiring and breathing hard; Levon can feel the tension in him, his clenched jaw, his protesting muscles, his pure stubborn proud willpower. Instinctively, Levon rubs his arm, in reassurance or admiration or some combination he can't identify.

“Hey,” he tries again, halfway across the floor, “you sure this is a good idea? Maybe we should wait till you at least got something on your stomach.”

Robbie makes a choked noise that's probably supposed to be a laugh.

“Oh, please let's not mention food just now.” But he briefly closes his eyes and lets his head rest against Levon’s shoulder.

Levon squeezes his arm, but all he says is “Almost there, so I’d prefer it if you didn't throw up on my best shirt,” which wins him a tight smile from Robbie.

In the bathroom, Robbie sits on the edge of the tub. He barely seems to register Levon's lingering worried presence in the doorway as he starts peeling off his shirt, which is when Levon clears his throat and takes a step backward.

“I'm gonna leave the door open a crack, all right?” he says. “Just… yell if something’s wrong. Don't take too long or let it get too hot.”

Robbie drags his gaze up to Levon, and it seems like he wants to make a snappy comeback but can’t gather the energy for it. “I’m fine.”

He looks anything but. So after Levon pulls the door mostly shut, he stays just outside, listening with misgiving until the shower starts. 

It's uncomfortable, almost shameful, going through Robbie's things for any reason. But as Robbie pointed out, he slept in his clothes, which would make anyone feel lousy. Levon doesn't want him to have to worry about it when he’s done in the shower. So he's in the process of picking out and folding shirts from Robbie's suitcase when someone knocks on the door to their room, and he can't help but start guiltily before he jumps up and answers it.

Richard’s standing in the hallway with a paper bag in one hand, looking decidedly worse for wear after whatever he got up to last night. Instead of commenting on it, though, Levon cocks his head and asks, “Just you this time?”

With a grin, Richard says, “Garth's still dead to the world. Ricky, uh, overthought it and got a little worried about actually entering the quarantine zone.”

Levon lets him into the room. “And you didn’t?”

Richard shrugs. After a second, he says, “Really, you’d have the most reason to be worried. Most susceptible to Canadian germs.”

Levon snorts. “Like to see ’em try.”

“How's he doing?”

“He’s not playin’ another damn show tonight, that's for sure,” Levon growls. “Not if I got anything to say about it.”

Richard raises his hands. “Easy, I'm with you. But we _don't_ have much say, do we?”

Levon sets his jaw belligerently. “I ain’t afraid of Ronnie Hawkins.”

“I am,” Richard says, which would sound like a confession if there were a trace of embarrassment in it. With a meaningful expression, he adds, “Robbie is.”

“So me and Rick’ll say something. We're not putting him through it— you didn't see him when we got back here, he can't take another night of drunk assholes makin’ eyes at him and grabbin’ at him when he can’t hardly see straight—”

“And neither can you?” asks Richard. 

His tone is neutral but his face is sympathetic, which knocks the momentum right out of Levon and whatever he might've been about to say. Which is maybe for the best, but Levon can feel his face heat up and his heart start doing double-duty.

“Oh, hey,” Richard says. “No, don’t— don’t worry about it. I told you, I'm with you. I've just been thinking… a better strategy might be if someone doesn't say _anything_.”

Levon sits on the nearest bed to disguise the quaking in his legs. “Not in the mood for riddles, but if you got a real idea, let’s hear it.”

“Until his star guitarist collapses in the middle of a set, which let’s agree none of us wants to see happen, it doesn't really matter to Ronnie how he's feeling,” says Richard. Levon nods with a scowl. “If one of his singers can't sing, though… say, for example, catches something that's been going around and loses his voice….”

Levon breaks into his first genuine smile of the day. “Yeah, that’s a different story. You feeling sick?”

Richard pauses. “I could be, and I can't say I wouldn't welcome an excuse to stay out of whatever goes down with Ronnie. But he's been letting you do more and more of the patter lately, and let’s be straight, it's not my face the girls are lining up for.”

Levon considers it. To him it seems pretty clear that in this incarnation of the band, Rick and Richard are the vocalists, and he's just a drummer with a crowd-pleasing drawl who also happens to be able to carry a tune. But Richard has a point: there's no denying that Ronnie has a long-term investment in Levon’s charm, and that he's been relying on it more with every week.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “I like it. That's good thinking, Richard. Thanks.”

Richard raises his shoulders again in that eloquently noncommittal shrug of his. “Anyway,” he says, setting his bag on the floor and glancing around, “there's some bread and sandwich meat and fruit in here, enough for both of you, ’cause I doubt you've eaten if he hasn't”—he fixes Levon with an eye, as if anticipating his objections—“and throat lozenges and cold medicine, and Ricky said he might bring ‘something special’ over later, God knows what that’ll be, and Garth insisted on a hot water bottle for the bed, I don't know where he got it but it's in there too.” Levon’s a bit taken aback by all of this, lost for words, when Richard asks, “Where _is_ Robbie, by the way?”

Levon realizes he can't hear the shower running anymore. “Shit,” he says, and goes to rap on the bathroom door. “All right in there?”

There's a heavy silence, and then Robbie says, hoarse and strangled-sounding, “—yeah, yeah, just thought I might… sit down a while.”

Levon presses his forehead to the door and mouths, “Goddammit, Robbie.” Then he collects himself and says more loudly, for Robbie’s ears this time, “Right. I'm gonna, I'm gonna come in?”

Robbie's voice is infused with appalled, visceral fear. “No, that's— no, you don't need to, I mean, I'm not—” He gets a little higher-pitched. “Y’know, I'm not really _decent_.”

Levon's forgotten they’re not alone until Richard comes up beside him. Levon glances at him frantically and Richard's brow is furrowed, as if he's not quite sure what the problem is. He looks into Levon’s face for a long moment and then nods.

“Hey, c’mon, Robbie,” he says, light and friendly, like Robbie’s not sitting there exposed on the other side of the door trying to muffle a fit of panicky coughing and probably fighting not to pass out. “Don't sell yourself short, you're one of the most decent people I know. It's Richard— how ‘bout I come give you a hand?” And he goes into the bathroom as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

Levon paces outside the door, fists clenched, until it finally reopens. Richard’s got one of Robbie’s arms slung over his shoulders, and Robbie’s bundled up in a robe and a towel. He’s pale, he’s still dripping wet, and Levon can hear his teeth chattering.

“Jesus, Robbie,” Levon hisses. “The hell are you trying to do to yourself?”

“Sorry,” Robbie mumbles. “Just... got cold all of a sudden…”

“‘sokay, let’s get you to bed,” says Richard, giving Levon an unexpectedly severe look. Chastened, Levon helps pull back the covers and ease Robbie in. Robbie’s practically convulsed with chills, but when he tries to lie down he can hardly breathe for coughing. Without hesitation, Richard clambers onto the bed to prop him up against the headboard, and Levon drapes one blanket around his shoulders and another across his lap. They’re a good team: Richard coaxes Robbie into stomaching some cough syrup while Levon wedges Garth’s hot water bottle down by his feet.

They do all of this quietly and efficiently; Robbie’s hacking and his hoarse, staccato apologies are almost the only sounds. Everything seems slower and more manageable with Richard here. Levon has time to wonder how a gentle, sweet-voiced, hard-drinking kid from some frozen back-of-beyond actors’ town (if you listen to Rick tell it, anyway) got so good at calming people down and defusing potential crises. 

Before too long, Robbie's out again. His head’s tucked against Richard's side, and Richard’s arm is wrapped snugly around him.

“Sorry,” Levon whispers. “He can get… like this, sometimes, when he's not feelin’ right. Sorta... touchy.”

But Richard smiles and waves Levon off. He looks pleased, and very comfortable with the situation. In fact, he looks comfortable in general. Levon goes into the bathroom to gather Robbie's clothes and tidy up, and by the time he comes back, Richard’s down for the count too, his head drooping onto Robbie’s. 

There are plenty of other things Levon could stay busy with, but instead he finds himself sitting on the floor beside Robbie's bed, his back to the wall and his knees pulled up against his chest, just watching them sleep.

***

In the early afternoon, Levon’s coming back from a trip to the ice machine—just to be safe, in case Robbie’s fever spikes again—when he runs into Garth and Rick in the hall. Garth’s carrying Robbie’s guitar, and Rick’s got a nervous air about him and his hands in his pockets.

By way of greeting, Garth gives the guitar to Levon and says, “He’ll want this even if he’s not playing tonight.”

“Oh,” Levon says. “You talk to Richard?”

“No,” Garth says. 

One word is often a complete sentence with Garth, but Rick jumps in helpfully: “I mean, he’s not, is he? He’d better not be.” He levels a fierce look at Levon, which for some reason fills Levon’s chest with warmth.

“It’s not gonna be a problem,” Levon says, winking. “Think I’m losing my voice. Probably be useless by tonight.”

Rick takes a step back. “Just this morning you seemed fine, though! —Oh, shit, is it that contagious? When did you start feeling sick? What was the first—”

Garth says, “It’s a ruse.”

Rick keeps backing up, his voice climbing. “I don’t care if it’s a _beaver virus_ , this is _awful_. Oh, God, and where’s Richard, is he down with it already, is he—”

“Rick,” Levon says, “it’s a trick, right? That we’re gonna try to pull over on Ronnie?”

Rick looks at both of them blankly for a moment more, and then his face clears with relief.

“Oh. You should’ve said from the beginning.” He thinks about it for a minute and starts giggling. “That’s brilliant. It’s a Richard idea, isn’t it? He’s brilliant like that.”

“You high again?” Levon asks.

“Well, I got bored!” says Rick defensively. “What with Garth asleep and the rest of you over here.”

“Y’know you’re welcome to come over any time,” Levon drawls. “Door’s always open.” And to emphasize the point, he jingles his room key and slides it into the lock.

Rick’s still faltering. “Nooo, that’s all right. But, uh, here, gimme your hand.” He brings his own hand out of his pocket for the first time and drops a pair of joints into Levon’s outstretched palm. “You didn’t get these from me, all right? But I thought maybe it might help make him feel better. One for him, one for you and Richard. So there’s no, uh, cross-contamination.”

Of course, any kind of smoke is the last thing Robbie’s lungs need right now. Levon feels a pang, remembering him in the club last night when he thought no one was watching: trying to hold back and bottle it up, every now and then turning his head in defeat to clamp his mouth hard against his sleeve and cough till his face went red and his eyes streamed. Levon could point that out to Rick. But it would just deflate him, and something about his plain, earnest concern for Robbie makes Levon decide against it.

“Right,” he says. "Thanks. I’m sure Robbie’ll thank you too.”

Rick grins. “Once he’s gotten that porcupine out of his throat.” He glances at Garth and says, “I’m gonna go take a nap, but I’ll leave the door unlocked. Maybe wash your hands before you come back, though.”

Once Rick’s gone, Levon raises his eyebrows at Garth and says, “He’s not _that_ contagious.” Garth chuckles and follows him into the room.

Levon had expected Richard to be up and about again by now, which is why he didn’t bother knocking first or otherwise announcing Garth’s arrival. But Richard and Robbie are both still curled up in bed. The only change is that Robbie’s slid farther down under the blankets, so that he’s dozing with his head against Richard’s hip. At the sound of the door, he cracks open an eye, squints blearily, and then shakes the bed with a violent sneeze, startling Richard awake as well.

“Mornin’ to you too,” Levon says wryly.

Robbie pulls a face before crumpling into himself with another pair of sneezes. Then, sniffling, he makes a self-disgusted noise of apology from behind his hands. Richard yawns, blesses him, and finds him a tissue. It’s only then that he seems to notice Levon and Garth.

“Oh, hi,” Richard says, yawning again, apparently not in the least self-conscious about any of this. 

It occurs to Levon that maybe Richard’s grateful for the excuse to spend a day crashed somewhere safe and warm and friendly. But then Levon's distracted by yet another sneeze from Robbie, who's struggling to sit up, already working on a fifth.

“Don’t you start that now,” Levon warns. “Chest cold’s bad enough.”

“Trying— not to—” Robbie gasps.

“It’s fine,” says Richard, “I brought plenty of tissues,” and Robbie groans and shivers and wrings out a final sneeze before sinking back against his side.

“Sorry,” Robbie says, attempting a rueful, watery-eyed grin. “That’s it. Just built up while I was sleeping, I guess.”

“ _Bless_ you,” says Richard, as Robbie blows his nose. “At least you feel cooler now. I’m not roasting in here anymore.”

“Yeah,” says Robbie, sounding less than thrilled. “If I take some bennies or something I’ll be good to go tonight.”

“Nope,” says Levon definitively. “Nobody’s playing tonight.”

Robbie looks up at him, puzzled and skeptical. “That come from Ron?”

“It will,” says Garth out of nowhere. “I’ll be talking to him.”

Robbie’s eyes go wide. “ _You’re_ going to talk to him?” 

Richard and Levon stare at Garth too, surprised by this new development, but Garth just shrugs. “He should be here soon. He stopped by our room about an hour ago wondering where everyone was.”

“Shit,” says Levon, “why didn’t anyone say so? You tell him we’re holed up in here?”

“You’re all out having brunch,” Garth says with great dignity, and Richard catches his breath and bursts out laughing. 

Levon directs a glare at him. “Rick was high; he had an excuse. You got nothin’.”

“I’m kind of tired,” Richard confesses, trying to get control of himself. “No, sorry, you’re right. We’re at brunch. It’s not… it’s not that....” He closes his eyes and compresses his lips. “It’s not that fu— oh, God—” And then he howls and buries his face in Robbie’s shoulder.

“It is pretty funny, Lee,” Robbie says. And maybe it’s his small smile, or the softness in his eyes, or just the fact of that “Lee,” but Levon doesn’t bother pursuing it.

The next twenty minutes are a waiting game. Robbie keeps casting anxious glances toward the door, no matter how many rambling involved jokes Richard tells or facts about baroque musical innovations Garth imparts. Levon can't even pretend to relax; he just stalks around the room finding things to pack or unpack. Whenever Robbie's not looking at the door or trying to pay attention to the other two, he’s following Levon with his eyes. A couple of times Levon wants to snap at him, _Will you stop fuckin’_ worrying _yourself for once_ , but he knows Robbie would wilt and Richard would make that disappointed face again. It's not Robbie he's angry at—not Robbie, never Robbie—but he's angry all the same, has been since yesterday without respite, and it's draining. Bad enough he can't shield Robbie from everything out there, on the street and in the clubs. But to be this helpless even here, in their room behind a closed door, is almost more than he can bear. And he doesn't know why, because it's not even like Robbie's his kin (and he never felt this way about his younger brother anyway, because Wheeler was a spitfire straight out of the womb).

When there's a knock on the door, it's almost a relief.

“That’ll be Ron,” says Garth, cool as can be. Richard starts unfolding himself from the bed, his face blank and set—he wasn't kidding, he's scared to death of Ronnie—but then Garth holds up a hand and says, “Leave it to me and Levon.”

“Yeah?” Richard asks, hesitating. When Garth nods, he lets out a breath and settles back down next to Robbie. “Thanks.” As Levon turns away, he can hear Richard murmur “I’m sure it’ll be all right” to Robbie.

Levon slips out the door, holding it open just wide enough for Garth to follow, then shuts it firmly behind him and sets his back against it. 

It is Ronnie, of course. He looks them both up and down, and says, “Kinda gettin’ a late start today, aren’t we?”

Levon shrugs nonchalantly, just this side of insolent.

“Where’re the rest of the boys?” asks Ronnie.

“Rick went back to our room,” says Garth in the blandest voice imaginable.

“That so,” says Ronnie. When Levon shrugs again, Ronnie leans forward and drawls, “You got some sort of bone to pick with me this afternoon, _Lavon_?”

Levon has a split second to wonder if maybe Richard had a hidden agenda in suggesting that he play the mute role in this, because Ronnie is baiting him expertly right now: crowding into his space, reminding Levon of who he was when they met, before Robbie, before the others. Instead of firing back, he has to shake his head and gesture at his throat.

“We think he’s coming down with whatever bug Robbie has,” Garth explains. “Completely lost his voice. I don’t know how we can perform tonight, honestly.”

“Really,” says Ronnie. “That came on awful fast, didn’t it?” He takes a moment to study Levon, who’s trying to make a believably regretful face. At length, Ronnie says, “Well, guess it was bound to happen, the two of you always rooming together. Maybe you boys are getting too close, if you’re starting to pass colds back and forth. You might wanna think about… putting some distance between you.”

There’s something nasty in his tone, and Levon jams his fists into his pockets so Ronnie won’t see them shake. He’s never gotten in a fight with Ronnie, just the occasional stupid disagreement, and this isn’t the time to start. But his hackles are up and his adrenaline’s surging and he doesn’t think he can keep his mouth shut much longer, if it’s going to be like this.

“Actually, Ron,” Garth says mildly, “you might count yourself lucky everyone’s as healthy as they generally are.” Ronnie takes a step back from Levon to turn toward him, and Garth continues: “We’re on the road all the time, we eat garbage, we’re always two or three deep in hotel rooms, and nobody gets anywhere near enough sleep.” 

He’s counting it off on the fingers of one hand, which he’s holding perilously close to Ronnie’s face. If anyone else tried this, Ronnie would deck them before they could blink; but he just looks thunderstruck. Garth’s not an easy person to get to know, and this may well be the most he’s ever said to Ronnie in a single conversation. Not to mention they’re around the same age, and Levon’s pretty sure that even Ronnie is a little in awe of the man.

Finally, Ronnie shakes his head and breaks eye contact. “Don’t suppose any of you wanna stick out your neck so far as to break the news to the club?”

“Sure,” replies Garth. “Should we head over now?”

Ronnie obviously has no idea how to regain control of the situation. He clears his throat and says, at an unnecessary volume, “Well, as long as you’re all aware it’s coming outta your pay this week. I ain’t running a charity here. You don’t work, you don’t draw wages.”

At that, Garth just starts walking away, so that Ronnie has no choice but to follow. Levon waits until they disappear around the corner of the hallway, then stands there breathing deeply with his back against the door. It takes him a few minutes to feel calm enough to go back into the room.

Richard and Robbie are still sitting up in bed, and Levon can tell from Robbie’s face that they heard most if not all of the conversation. Robbie’s shaking his head in response to something Richard said, and as Levon shuts and locks the door behind him, Robbie says, “Please, I feel terrible—” and breaks off to cough.

“That’s why we’re not playing tonight,” Richard points out gently. 

Robbie’s still shaking his head, the motion bordering on frantic. “No, you know what I mean. Let me go talk to Ronnie and fix this. I can play, it’s not worth it—”

“Robbie,” Levon says, and he’s still trembling and confused and ashamed and _so angry_. But for once, miraculously, none of that is in his voice. Robbie stops and looks up at him, uncertain, a kind of melting in his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

Richard’s beaming at Levon. “Yeah,” he echoes: “it is.”

Robbie blinks and swallows. “Oh,” he says.

After a moment, Richard affectionately ruffles his hair. When Robbie leans into the touch, a flash of pleased surprise lights up Richard’s face, but all he says is “I should get back to our room. Ricky has at least one more joint in there, so somebody oughta make sure he hasn’t floated away or started eating the curtains or something.” As he gets out of bed, he pats Robbie’s knee and says, “Get some rest, and don’t let this one boss you around too much.” To Levon he says nothing, just grins crookedly at him before leaving.

Into the silence that follows, Robbie eventually says, very quietly, “Thanks.”

“I didn’t even have to say a word,” says Levon, leaning against the wall. “It was Richard’s idea and Garth did all the talking.”

“Yeah,” says Robbie. “I still… can’t quite believe that happened.”

“Neither could Ronnie.”

Robbie chuckles. “I wish I could’ve seen his face.” Then he grimaces and amends, “Well. Just that moment. Not the rest of it.”

“He’ll get over it,” says Levon, which is true. Ronnie doesn’t tend to hold grudges. But it’s also unlikely he’ll forget this anytime soon, and Levon keeps thinking about that twist of his mouth, _Maybe you boys are getting too close…._ He clears his throat. “How you feelin’? Time to pour more cold medicine into you?”

Robbie shakes his head. “I don’t wanna go back to sleep just yet. Even if we’re not playing tonight, I could still practice.…”

“Or you could not.” Robbie frowns and opens his mouth to argue, and Levon lowers his voice. “Robbie. You don’t need it. You looked like warmed-over shit last night and you still sounded like…” He gropes for words, and finds none. “You sounded real good. So, how are you _feeling_?”

“Tired,” Robbie admits. “I mean, better. But… tired.” He shivers, and adds, “Cold.”

Levon’s about to go hunt down housekeeping and ask for more blankets, but then he stops. He’s thinking about Robbie pressing into Richard’s hand, and the sound he made last night when Levon felt his forehead. Robbie asks for so little and is so grateful for whatever scraps he’s given. The width of the room is still between them, but the words are out of Levon’s mouth before he has time to reconsider: “Scoot over.”

Robbie furrows his brow. “Sorry?”

“You already got all the blankets,” says Levon. “So scoot… your ass… over.”

Robbie licks his lips and says faintly, “Didn’t Richard just say I shouldn’t let you order me around like this?”

Levon gives him a wide, challenging grin. “Yeah, Richard ain’t here no more. You want me to move you myself?”

At that, Robbie scrambles sideways and lets Levon in. As casually as possible, Levon settles onto his side, his back to Robbie, and heaves a contented sigh. 

“If you don’t wanna sleep, that’s your choice,” he says. “But I was up half the night with you— _don’t_ say ‘Sore-ee’—so you just try and keep it down, now.”

This close, even Robbie’s slightest movements are perceptible, and the mattress vibrates when he asks tentatively, “Do you… want a blanket too?”

“Sure,” says Levon, and then Robbie’s arranging one over him, and their shared warmth is beneath it. He can feel Robbie yawn. They’re not quite touching, not yet, but he can feel all of Robbie. Suddenly he can’t keep his eyes open. “Go ’sleep, baby,” he slurs, and Robbie inhales sharply but doesn’t move away; doesn’t budge from his side, the rest of the long afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been almost a decade since I last posted something to AO3, and of course I come back with... an extremely niche RPS fic.
> 
> Title from the Buddy Holly song “Not Fade Away,” which Levon covered with the Hawks at shows in the early ‘60s. I’d link the ‘64 Port Dover recording here but TRAGICALLY it seems to have disappeared from YouTube. Here’s the 1996 version by the Band (minus Robbie and Richard, of course) with the Crickets: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=FXkQWEup704
> 
> And here’s video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BDzVaKF1keg
> 
> Thanks to gericault, definestrange, and sweetmel—my fellow denizens in the Robbie Robertson Feels Pit—for inspiring me to write this 2.5 years ago, after I’d spent a long time not writing anything at all; and for reassuring me that it isn’t too embarrassing to share with strangers now.
> 
> (I once promised geri that if I ever posted Band fic I’d tag it with “READ TESTIMONY,” so: READ _TESTIMONY_. And also read “this is not our fate," gericault’s smart, delicate pair of Bob Dylan/Robbie stories: https://archiveofourown.org/series/728493)


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